


Risen

by ElysianStars



Category: Loren the Amazon Princess
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysianStars/pseuds/ElysianStars
Summary: Two people who'd always been told they were unlovable, discovering that isn't actually true.





	Risen

At first Saren held vigil in silence, shock and fatigue leaving no space for anything else. Then he talked, because it felt wrong to be in a room with Draco and hear nothing, no idle chatter or corny jokes. Then he fell silent again, because that's what he was used to, working with the professional, obedient focus of a Citadel healer. Then he talked again, finding a thin sliver of comfort in the idea that somehow, wherever his mind drifted, Draco might be able to hear.

He'd treated Amazons with worse injuries, and they hadn't lived. Too much blood lost, vital elements ripped out of place in ways not even magic could mend. Draco was only breathing because of him – no vanity attached to that, it was the plain truth. Yet it didn't feel like enough.

“I was around five when they realised I had a talent,” Saren said, summoning the blurry memory. “I'd already been sold out of my mother's household by then. When an Amazon gives birth to a boy, she immediately hands him over to a wet nurse, another slave, rather than waste time with an unwanted child. It's different in the Empire, but you weren't allowed to grow up with your parents either, were you?”

He halted, looking down at his hands. Although they were scrubbed clean, the faint aroma of crushed herbs lingered on his skin, from the poultices and potions he'd mixed. Dwarven lands didn't grow all the same plants as the Citadel, but they had decent substitutes. One recipe to promote restoration of the blood, another to ward off infection, a third for pain relief (although Amazons normally scorned that). He'd sent extras out into Hammerhands, to aid in the aftermath of the demons' assault, but couldn't bring himself to leave this bedside, and to his surprise there'd been no orders from Loren. He didn't think she'd have understood.

“Anyway. At night they kept us in pens – I've told you that already. We couldn't talk, but there was a boy who had the patch of ground beside mine, and we'd pull funny faces at each other before we slept. It's one of the few childish things I remember doing. He belonged to another mistress, so that was the only time I saw him.

“One night he came to the pen looking miserable, with his hands and knees badly scraped. Everyone else ignored him, and that's what I was supposed to do too, but instead I reached out...and there was a light, and he wasn't hurt any more.

“I was afraid I'd be punished for disobedience. But my mistress was pleased, because a special talent made me valuable.”

He halted again. In their usual conversations, Draco tended to do the lion's share of prompting, rambling about whatever crossed his mind or asking barrages of questions. Saren had never been encouraged to talk so freely with anyone else. Probably Draco was seldom _encouraged_ by other people, so often as merely humoured or tolerated, but that was enough. He took whatever chances he could get.

When they first met, Saren hadn't liked that about him, such a cavalier and happy-go-lucky attitude. Then he'd started to realise that was only the surface of Draco's personality, a bubble that bounced back some of what the world threw at him.

“My last mistress, before Loren, grew wealthy loaning me to the healer's quarter. At first, the women in charge there didn't want to teach me, and some patients refused to be treated by me. They said a man would be too clumsy for such work, but couldn't deny the results of my magic. Eventually, nobody could. I was the lowest in terms of rank, but they passed the most difficult cases to me.

“...My point is, I know what I'm doing here. I've been doing it a long time, so you're being really stubborn by not responding better.” It was meant to be said in a light-hearted tone, but fell wearily short.

He laid a hand on Draco's chest, over the sheets, and exhaled slowly as a healing spell made his skin glow from within. The fiftieth spell, the hundredth? He'd lost count. Draco's face remained pale, immobile, all the more upsetting because he was normally so animated. Smiling, fidgeting, fighting tears – even the latter would be better than this.

If he'd survived this long, there was a fair chance he'd wake, but no guarantee it would be within the next few days, before the battle at Everburn. The armies wouldn't wait for a single mage, no matter how powerful...or how anybody felt about him. And there was even less guarantee Saren would return from that battle. A bitter end to something that barely had a chance to begin.

 

* * *

 

Waking up, Draco felt at least half-convinced that he was dead. Facing off against a giant drake was enough to earn a ticket to Elysium, right? That must be where he lay now. It was the only explanation that fit his ragged patchwork of recent memories. Battered by flames he hadn't conjured, the agony of that crushing bite, blackness, and then a return to consciousness with the sweetest thing he could imagine: Saren's kisses, telling him everything his heart had ever cried out for, with barely a need for words. Telling him he was good, and brave, and _wanted_ , rather than an untouchable nuisance. That kind of perfection couldn't happen in reality.

If this were Elysium though, Saren should still be here, warm and reassuring, not vanished to leave Draco alone in the bed. You'd think an afterlife focused on eternal bliss would be able to get that right. Also, you'd think it would cure the lingering pains of his wounds. Bandages crossed his chest and arms, and it hurt to breathe deeply, which seemed odd for a spirit who'd left their mortal body behind.

All right, so maybe he wasn't dead. Alive, gradually recovering, and thinking back on a blissful dream. That wasn't too bad a result.

The only _other_ explanation – by far the least probable – was it had all really happened, but then Saren came to his senses in the light of day. On one level, Draco knew Saren wasn't that type of person, but he couldn't help feeling it was the most normal reaction, to waking beside him: run for the hills and pretend nothing happened. In his mind, he heard a mocking chorus of voices from the past, sniggering in agreement. It chilled the earlier glow of contentment he'd felt.

Slowly, testing how much he'd mended, he managed to sit up. It wasn't actually daylight, curtains drawn and a few candles keeping darkness at bay. The same room as in his dream, which was strange, but then again he hadn't been looking too closely at things like the walls and furniture, had he?

His bandaged skin itched. He recalled the drake's teeth cracking ribs, punching into his stomach – and the horror paired with those sensations, knowledge of his own body being torn apart – and wondered if it would leave scars. Probably didn't matter, since nobody would see. Nobody cared if you threw one more piece of garbage onto a pile of garbage.

Sometimes, on better days, he entertained thoughts that what he felt could be mutual. Or if not _all_ he felt, all of the pining, head-over-heels love that he struggled not to make too obvious, then at least a fragment, a faint spark of it. When Saren took hold of his hand before they marched from the Citadel, or asked him not to hide his ears (and since then he'd always left them visible, because he'd do anything Saren wanted, not caring if that would be one more reason for others to laugh at him). But this wasn't a better day, and he didn't have the energy for so much optimism.

He needed to believe it was a dream, and that's why Saren wasn't here. The alternative would kill him more surely than the drake had. So it was definitely just a dream, no matter how real it felt, clarity and intimate details far beyond what his unconscious mind could generally conjure. Or even his conscious mind. Even in fantasy, it was hard to set self-loathing aside for long, to imagine someone looking at him the way he really wanted.

Saren's fingers had traced the shape of those horrible, life-ruining ears, like they were flawless. Like everywhere his hands wandered, every part of Draco, was flawless. Like he could see right through to Draco's soul, as bare and wounded as the body connected to it, but he was going to accept it all, keep it all safe.

An ache in Draco's chest pierced deeper than the injuries could excuse. He bit his lip, eyes watering. It was _definitely_ a dream. Definitely.

The opening door startled him. Saren stepped in, carrying a tray – which he hastily set aside, concern shadowing his face. In moments Draco's emotions flashed from shame and surprise, through to a jolt of understanding and soaring relief. The tray was filled with breakfast dishes, and he barely had time to glance at it before Saren knelt next to him, catching hold of his hands.

“Draco?”

Draco gave a small, abashed laugh. “Right. You went to get food. I...totally knew that.”

Saren's expression grew sad, not fooled by the half-lie. He didn't reply, simply held their gazes for a moment, then leaned in for a tender, lingering kiss. Just as perfect as the night before. Feelings reaffirmed, he squeezed Draco's hands, and smiled.

“Sorry, I expected you'd still be asleep. You haven't had a proper meal in days, so I thought I'd go raid the keep's kitchens.” From the tray rose scents of newly-baked bread, scrambled eggs, fruit-topped porridge. A pause, before he added, “The armies are marching for Everburn today. You can rest here in the meantime, if the journey would be too-”

“Hey, you'd leave me behind? After you got such an impressive look at my drake-slaying skills?” Draco pouted, and won a soft, incredulous chuckle in response. “Seriously, if you go I'll just follow anyway, so you may as well give in right now.”

“That's what I thought you'd say.” And Saren didn't sound displeased, quite the opposite.

“Great. Now that's settled, let's have breakfast? I'm starving!”

 

* * *

 

Throughout the march, Saren kept Draco by his side, always prepared to steady him if he stumbled, or cast an additional healing spell in case he pushed himself too hard. Those seemed more effective since he'd woken, as if his own awareness was helping them work. Perhaps it was. Just as well, because Saren really hadn't wanted to do this without him.

The atmosphere couldn't be called romantic. Ranks of armed troops stretched as far as the eye could see, and Loren's group took the lead, setting an unrelenting pace. The trample of boots was overlaid by war chants, rising and falling, lyrics varying between the humans, elves and dwarves. Everburn's bulk glowered down at them, set against unnaturally dark and turbulent skies. Nevertheless, Draco gave a fearless, adoring smile every time Saren glanced his way.

Amongst Amazons, feelings like these were beneath consideration. The only true, worthy love was between women. A man might revere his mistress, but she'd never think to reciprocate (unless, like Queen Karen, she was prepared to bear a terrible weight of shame). And another man? Fraternisation between slaves, better to stamp it out rather than wait and see what trouble would arise. Slaves should be attending to their labours, not each other. Some questioned whether men were even capable of a full range and depth of emotions, inferior as they supposedly were.

Saren had never been convinced of that. Which was fortunate, because otherwise what he felt for Draco would be baffling, as well as overwhelming. Giving himself to somebody, not out of cold servitude or duty, but his own choice. Giving his entire self: his heart, his thoughts, faults as well as virtues. Making it an equal exchange.

After a full morning's travel, the army called a brief halt at midday to rest and distribute rations. Saren found himself summoned to a consultation of leaders, in a tent that had been pitched with impressive speed (he wasn't sure why they'd bothered, but it did look more official than sitting around a campfire). It seemed plans weren't yet finalised, with generals arguing over how to use their vastly different troops: where to position the elven archers, what point the dwarven berserkers should enter the fray, and so on. Having travelled around and dealt with all these people, Saren and Loren held a balanced view of their strengths and weaknesses, the better to advise.

Well, Saren _advised_ , Loren simply _told_. Thankfully, the generals listened.

With those quarrels settled, he was free to check on friends before the march resumed. He found Draco busy tying multi-coloured ribbons around Trouble's three necks, which the hellhound bore with a moderate level of cooperation. Saren said nothing, folding his arms and observing with a sense of fond amusement, waiting until Draco noticed he was there.

“Oh, hey Saren! ...You're probably wondering what I'm doing, huh? It's so everyone in the army knows Trouble is on our side, even though he's technically a demon.”

“That's not a bad idea, but I hope those fabrics are flameproof. Shouldn't you take this time to rest?”

“I'm doing okay,” Draco claimed, but as he finished adjusting the ribbons and stood up, a twinge of pain crossed his face.

“Come on, I'll check you over. Wounds can pull open if you move around too much.” Saren paused, realising there wasn't a healer's tent set up. Any soldier clumsy enough to hurt themselves before the battle even began...well, they may as well turn around and go home. “We'll go to the generals' tent. I think it's the only private place right now.” The generals should have left already, or so he hoped. 

“Careful, or somebody might get the wrong idea,” Draco joked, with a shy hint of colour in his cheeks.

The tent did prove empty, only a table remaining covered with maps of Aravorn, rivers and mountains formed from sepia ink, carved pieces to represent armies. Saren tried to maintain a healer's neutral discipline as he faced Draco, untied his scarlet cloak, then carefully slid the robes from his shoulders, down far enough to inspect the bandages on his chest and stomach. Draco said nothing, shifting in quiet cooperation, gaze fixed on a patch of ground off to one side.

“There's no bleeding through. I think everything's holding together,” Saren said, fingers running over strips of textured white linen, across warm skin. Trying not to focus on the sound of Draco's breathing, quickening awkwardly. “You're doing fine.”

“Oh, sure. Apart from the fact you're torturing me right now. You do know that, right?”

Saren hesitated, unsure if that meant he should back off or move closer (yet completely certain what he _wanted_ to do). “You're the one who said not to get the wrong idea.”

“That was about other people. If it's _your_ idea, then...” Draco trailed off with a tentative smile, like part of him still expected to be laughed away, bracing for rejection even at this point.

Of course, the remedy for that was to kiss him. It always would be.

Saren hadn't known there was such solace to be found in this, beyond basic pleasure (though that was new for him, too). All his life, he'd been trained to stoically block messages from his own body – ignore cold, bruising ground in order to sleep, ignore the aches from long hours of toil – but with Draco, those barriers melted away. He could follow impulses, touch and hold and be welcomed for it. A type of freedom that not even royalty had the power to grant. Only Draco.

However, this wasn't a time or place to get completely carried away.

“We'd better stop before we get caught,” Saren whispered regretfully. Draco nodded, but leaned up to steal one more kiss, regardless. And then another, before they parted.

It took an effort of willpower to step back. Together they fumbled to set Draco's clothing back into place, hands bumping and getting in each other's way, sharing hushed laughter. A thrumming echo of warmth lingered on Saren's skin, like the bright after-images that followed staring into the sun.

In the back of his mind, guilt simmered. He used to be so certain, full of blind, effortless devotion to a single cause. Yet now, recalling his vow to be the sacrifice against Fost...he wished there was a way to save Aravorn, without breaking Draco's fragile heart.

 

* * *

 

Fost's dying scream was inhuman, clamouring in Draco's head at unnatural tones and pitches, hard to banish even after the monster himself was gone.

Then the whole world tumbled upside down, nonexistent colours flashing before his eyes, and Draco hit solid ground, coughing on dark volcanic dust. Back in Everburn, unless this was another illusion. Battle-wearied, half-healed wounds stinging anew from the way he'd fallen, he was slow to clamber to his feet, to glance around at the others and begin searching for Saren.

He couldn't see him. There was Loren, looking like their ordeal had taken its toll even on her, and there was Myrth, Dora, Apolimesho (pointedly ignoring Draco, which was just fine), and...

Was Saren not here? Had he not made it back from the Under-Realm?

The certainty of it struck Draco, choked the air from him. His thoughts spun, panicked, anguished. He'd _known_ something terrible was going to happen. So many terrible things had already happened: the demon invasion, the drake, the mind-twisting maze leading up to this. He should have known better than to hope for a happy ending.

He barely registered when he started to cry. Tears seemed to come so easily, since falling in love. As a child he'd been a crybaby, then learned to cover hurts with a silly smile, trying to disarm his legions of bullies or at least pretend he wasn't bothered and salvage a little pride. He'd become well practised in false bravado. But with Saren he was defenceless, everything bubbling to the surface whether he wanted or not. And now everything hurt.

He'd tried so hard, and the world didn't care, just like always.

Then, as if from nowhere, Saren's arms enveloped him, holding the newly-shattered pieces of him safely in place. A sob wavered into a gasp. Thrown from one extreme to the other, Draco froze briefly before scrambling for the lifeline: kisses clumsy with desperate relief, clinging too tight but he couldn't help it. Saren, as always, was patient with him. Maybe he needed reassurance, as well.

By the time they'd descended the gutted volcano, adrenaline had drained away leaving only exhaustion. They had to cross ground piled with demon corpses to reach their allies' camp, preparing for a night's rest before the return to Hammerhands. Draco glimpsed mixed scenes between tents, some soldiers keen to celebrate victory, others mourning lost comrades. Raised pitchers gleaming in firelight, snatches of laughter and song, contrasting with motionless figures lost in prayer, with groans of the wounded from healers' tents (Saren took an instinctive step in that direction, before Loren sternly told him he'd done enough for one day). In some places the different races mingled, and in others they held themselves separate, despite what they'd been through. Generations of grudges couldn't vanish overnight.

Draco stumbled past it all, focused on keeping hold of Saren's arm and not falling flat on his face.

When they reached a cluster of those big, fancy tents reserved for leaders, he expected to see Loren disappear into one, and...well, he wasn't sure what he expected, beyond that. They'd been travelling light, without camping equipment like they normally did, so he didn't have a tent of his own to set up. Vaguely, he decided that didn't matter. He could sleep soundly on a heap of rocks tonight.

Instead, Saren led him into one of the tents, and belatedly Draco realised this was _thei_ _rs_ , since there didn't appear to be any other occupants telling them to get out. A table held food, wine, a basin of clean water to wash away the grime of battle. A lantern spread its soft amber glow over sleeping pallets piled with plush furs. Accommodation fit for heroes. Draco blinked, uncertain where to start, while Saren stepped forward without missing a beat, briskly splashed water onto his face and hands, then set to loading two plates with slices of smoked ham, crisp green apples and crumbling white cheese. Like he wasn't tired at all. Well, good for him.

Draco sighed, slumping gratefully onto the furs. Saren passed him a plate, but instead of sitting beside him to eat, drew his sword and began looking for a cloth to clean it. Demon's blood stained the blade, marred the silver of his armour in murky smears (though after what they'd been through, that was the least you'd expect).

“I don't know how you can carry on like that. Don't you ever get tired?”

“Hm? Of course. I feel like my arms are about to drop off, right now. But I've felt the same before, and it's never actually happened yet.” The subtle curl of a smile, to show he wasn't complaining.

“Why not leave that for tomorrow, then?”

Saren looked from Draco to the sword, frowning slightly as if that hadn't occurred to him. “I'm used to getting things done on a schedule, I suppose.”

A ray of perception pierced the dense, weary clouds hazing Draco's thoughts. Phrased like that it didn't sound bad, but there was a silent 'or else' hanging onto the end, wasn't there? He was used to being super-efficient because people made him, not because he was naturally fussy (well, maybe he was that too, but the important part was having a choice).

“Bah, schedules. Haven't we earned a break from that stuff?” Draco reached out a hand, and to his satisfaction, Saren set the sword aside and took it.

Gestures like that still needed courage, against wavering fears Saren might turn away, lose interest, not respond. This still felt too good to be true. But the reward was worth the fear of pressing forward, and he knew Saren understood.

Because Saren knew how it felt to be unwanted, too. They'd both been thrown aside by the societies they were born into, for things they couldn't control, superficial things that nobody should care about anyway. Saren had managed to keep a level of self-confidence, more than Draco – wallflowers probably didn't survive long around Amazons. He was better at fitting in, impressing the right people, making his so-called flaws not matter in a way that Draco had never mastered. But he knew how it felt to be unwanted.

He'd never experience that again, though. Not so long as Draco breathed (and hopefully that wouldn't stop any time soon).

 

* * *

 

Saren remembered the last time he'd spoken to his former mistress. As far as others knew, she'd succumbed to a sudden illness, but that wasn't the truth. It had been slowly eating her for months, kept at bay by his healing skills, masking the symptoms. When her strength finally failed beyond repair, he was afraid she'd punish him for being unable to work a miracle. As slave owners went, she was generally magnanimous, but not above cruelty to those who didn't please her.

She'd summoned him to the tallest tower in her dwelling, the top floor open to winds and stars, offering a prime view of the Citadel at night. Her eyes were closed however, thoughts turned inwards. He wondered if she'd considered taking her own life, the culturally approved choice, the ultimate way for an Amazon to transcend weakness in the view of her peers. He didn't much like the idea, himself.

“Did you know,” she said, not waiting for him to announce his presence, as if they'd already been conversing for a while, “in ages past, when an Amazon queen died, her favoured slaves would be slain too, so they could follow her to the afterlife and continue their service?”

“I didn't know that, mistress.”

“Wasteful, but there's a sense of poetry to it.” A period of silence where he waited obediently, not without a flicker of trepidation. Cool, steady gusts of wind stirred the ornaments at her throat and wrists, making a sound like cracking glass. For some reason, that detail lodged in his memory. “Don't worry, you'll be passed on to someone who'll appreciate you. You've earned that much.”

“You're too kind. I'm only sad that you have to make such arrangements.”

She gave a dry laugh, cutting off sharply when it threatened to become a cough. “When you say that, it sounds as if you mean it. Here. I want you to take something – call it a reward, memento, whatever suits you.” She held up a ring, patterned gold and jade. A rare piece of Amazon craftsmanship, since they preferred weaponsmiths to jewellers. When Saren hesitated, she added, “I've already declared that I gifted it away. Nobody will think you stole it.”

Slaves weren't allowed to own property or riches, a fact she knew perfectly well. However, in the brief time between her death and his reassignment to serve Loren, he did manage to keep hold of it. He couldn't say if it was due to genuine sentiment, or only because she'd told him to. There was little point in trying to figure such things out.

He'd carried the ring through his adventures, and in that time it had taken on a different meaning (besides harbouring a mildly useful charge of magic). He was a free man now, and could in theory own whatever he liked, but this was the first thing that had actually been his. A bridge between old life and new – a good luck charm perhaps, an omen of things to come.

Draco liked good luck charms, didn't he?

In the liminal peace of early morning, Saren woke to the unfamiliar comfort of another person beside him. They'd left the lamp burning, and only made it halfway out of armour and clothes before collapsing into sleep. Draco's hair had escaped its tie, a disordered spill of smooth gold. Once again, Saren was struck with absolute bafflement that anyone could look at him and see something _ugly_. Hideous, that was the word Draco used. How often had people told him that, to break him into believing it? The thought made Saren's heart hurt. He curled an arm around him, gathered him closer, and Draco gave a drowsy sigh, face buried against Saren's chest.

This was the most important thing in the world, right now.

Sleeping late was unknown to Saren, so he simply lay there, listening to muted noises outside the tent as others woke and began their duties. It was strange to not be amongst them. Strange to be alive at all, after the sacrifice he'd intended to make, and he couldn't decide how to feel about that. A blaze of relief doused by the chill of failure, balance tipping one way and then another. Still, what's done was done. He wouldn't waste this extra chance.

After a while, not wanting to be chastised for causing a delay, he nudged Draco awake.

“Five more hours,” Draco mumbled, unhelpfully. Saren kissed his forehead, prompting him to open his eyes.

“Good morning.” All the important things were already established, without needing to be said. _We survived. We're going home,_ _wherever we decide that is_ _. I love you._

“Morning,” Draco echoed, soft and bashful, like he knew exactly how he looked in Saren's view, here. And it was no less than he'd earned – after all, he was the first to befriend Saren after leaving the Citadel, _he_ was the first to look and see an actual person, not mere property or a rival or anything negative. Not a potential secret ally, the best to be hoped for from another slave, or a potential sire, the best to be hoped for from an Amazon. Simply a friend, guileless and generous. Another omen of things to come.

“We'd better get up soon, before Loren drags us out by the ankles.”

“I'm not scared of her.” A few heartbeats of silence, before Draco asked, “We can't stay here just a while longer...?”

It took a few more beats for Saren to realise it wasn't laziness, driving that question. Draco's mouth met his in a feather-light brush, gaining confidence to progress into a real kiss, striking a deeper chord than any practised act of seduction could. He was bold and reckless sometimes – they both were – but not when it came to this, not at all. That first night together they hadn't really done a lot, as neither was in a fit condition to. Bandages remained wrapping Draco's chest, even now.

Yet the wounds beneath were healing, and as Saren guided away his robes this time there was no faltering, glancing aside or casually insulting himself. He only smiled, and it was beautiful.


End file.
